City Sidewalks
by spoffyumi
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Natasha is headed home alone until she finds a homeless man unconscious on the street. Christmas spirit and all that... A one-shot.


Natasha stepped out into the frigid December air and wrapped her red woolen scarf over her mouth and nose, then very nearly slammed into someone on the sidewalk. "I'm so sorry! Merry Christmas," the man added hastily. Despite it being close to eight o'clock on Christmas Eve, the streets were bustling with traffic and pedestrians. Natasha narrowed her eyes and otherwise ignored the man.

Flagging down a taxi was impossible - a thing Natasha had never experienced. She flipped her red curls over her shoulder and raised her arm again, only to watch yet another yellow cab drive by, already occupied. A glance at her watch told her she'd been at this for far too long, and the cold creeping through her heeled boots told her the same. She was not in any rush to get home, but she certainly did not enjoy the cold.

The nearest subway station couldn't be far, as many of her CIA coworkers relied on the public transit. Still, she never used the subway if she could help it, and she did not know where it was located. Using the GPS on her smartphone, she made her way through the crowd, throwing her elbows every now and then to remind her fellow humans to leave her alone.

So engrossed was she by the glowing screen that she barely noticed a turn onto one of the dicier streets of DC. The homeless lined the sidewalks with cardboard signs and tin cans to collect change. "Help a brother out," said one heap of clothing as she passed. She wrinkled her nose and walked on. "I've got two kids," said another. "Please, ma'am, it's Christmas."

Natasha shut her ears to these pleas. It seemed impossible that so many were homeless. Weren't there shelters for these people?

Finally, the steps down into the subway appeared, and Natasha exhaled a plume of steam as she gratefully made her way down.

The underground was not any less crowded than above. Natasha bought her fare and pushed through the turnstiles, then walked briskly to her line, which was nearly deserted. Nearly, because she had to step over the legs of yet another homeless man to get on the platform. "I am certain you are breaking a fire code," Natasha snapped at the man, turning to glare at him.

That was when she noticed he did not appear to be conscious.

His cardboard sign had flopped over, and had bent nearly in half. She could barely make out the Sharpie scrawl that read "homeless veteran will work for food." One of the sleeves of his dirty green jacket was folded up and pinned.

"Excuse me, are you okay?" she found herself asking.

Why was she bothering? He was homeless, and clearly sleeping. She shouldn't disturb him. Except something about the way he lay did not strike her as a sleeping position. She had been trained by the CIA to notice every small detail about a situation. Perhaps it was the little cut on his forehead that gleamed in a fresh way. Or the way he had his legs in front of the stairs, but the rest of him was slumped over to the side. Or the smell of alcohol and sick on him.

She crouched down and pushed at his shoulder to reveal his face. Under the scruff and street dirt, she could see that he was a young man, around her own age. Shaking his shoulder again, she asked, "Hello? Are you alive?"

His eyes fluttered open. In another place and time, those eyes might have been the ice blue of winter, but down here they were muddied and dull. The man blinked and he squinted, focusing on her face.

"Okay, good. You're alive. Just drunk." Natasha stood, brushing off her hands.

She was about to turn away when the man's eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out again.

Natasha looked around. The platform was completely deserted. She could not even hear the rumbling of an approaching train. She knelt down again.

First, she checked his pulse. It was weak and tripped along unevenly. His breath was shallow and his complexion pale. She moved his head and examined the cut there. Beneath his baseball cap and greasy hair was the bloom of a bruise, stark against his temple. He might have fallen over here, drunk, or he might have been the victim of a beating. As she noted the bruises beneath the collar of his frayed flannel shirt, she came to believe it was partially the first and mostly the second. His collarbone stuck out.

Looking around, she considered her options. She could leave him here, that would be the easiest. Unless he died of his injuries, or of the cold, or of starvation. Then there would be video surveillance showing her as the last person who touched him. Her position at the CIA would be jeopardized.

She could call the police, anonymously. A Good Samaritan gesture. She pulled out her phone to do so, but when she pushed the button the screen remained dark. The damn GPS had sucked the life out of her already-low battery.

Third option: take the man home.

"I can't do that," she muttered to herself, looking around again like someone would magically appear from behind one of the pillars. More likely, the same thugs who had beaten a homeless veteran would emerge. She looked down at the man again. "I can't do that," she repeated.

A screech and a rumble beneath her feet signalled the arrival of her train.

"I can't carry you," she said. She reached down and shoved the man's shoulder. "Wake up."

"Huhnrr?" he moaned.

"Get up," she said.

It took some prodding, and it turned out the train wasn't her train but another line. By the time she had the man on his swaying feet, his one arm over her shoulder, her train had arrived, and she pulled the man along onto the train and sat him down. He smelled sour and dirty and she tried to breathe through her mouth.

The doors squeezed shut and then she was hurtling through the tunnels with a strange man. No cell phone to call for help if she needed it.

Then again, Natasha had made a point of never needing help. She was not concerned about her own safety, as most other women might be in the same situation.

What was she doing? She lived a solitary life on purpose. It was easier that way. She should have left him where he was. He would have been fine. She peeked over at him, fully expecting him to have passed out again, and was surprised to see those blue, blue eyes looking at her.

"You're beautiful," he said in an exhale.

Natasha tried not to smell his rank breath. "Thank you. I wish I could return the compliment, but you could use a bath. Or a decontamination chamber."

She saw something change in the light of his eyes as she spoke the words.

"I know." His voice was gravelly.

He closed his eyes, and after a moment, his head dipped down and came to rest against hers. Natasha sighed and looked up at the subway map printed over the doors of the car. Two more stops. Just two more stops.

Then what?

Then Natasha found herself once again walking through a near-deserted platform with a barely conscious man leaning on her. She was grateful for the escalator, and the way everyone was either too busy heading home or shopping or partying to see her or else they nodded knowingly, assuming Natasha was carrying home a drunk friend. Or boyfriend. Or husband. She shuddered to think that anyone might assume such as thing.

The subway station was only a block from her apartment building. A block felt a lot longer carrying dead weight. Natasha jabbed at the man's chest. "Come on. Wake up a little," she snapped at him.

He inhaled and lifted his head. He didn't seem to understand where they were. He didn't seem to care where they were going. Or, he didn't ask. Only when they had taken the elevator up to her floor, and she was fumbling for her keys, did he look around and ask, "Is this where you live?"

"Yes." She got the door open and they entered.

Her cat, a black shadow, streaked away. Natasha set the man down on one of the bar stools at her kitchen counter and made sure he was steady before stepping away to close the door.

"You took me to your house?" the man asked, his brow furrowed.

"Do you have health insurance?" she asked, and when he shook his head, she shrugged. "I couldn't exactly take you to a hospital, could I?"

The man gazed around at her gleaming hardwood floors, the soft white carpet in the living room and the leather couch before the fireplace. "Are you rich?"

She shrugged off her coat and hung it on the coat rack, then pulled off her boots. "We should get you cleaned up. You've got a big cut on your head, and some bruises, and who knows what else." She tried not to look at the pinned-up sleeve when she said this, but failed.

"That's an old injury," he said. "Army."

"Yeah, I saw on your sign that you're a veteran?"

"Yeah." He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Here it was, that awkward silence Natasha wasn't sure how to fill. This was the major reason why she should not have chosen option three.

"What's your name?" she said.

"James," he said. "My friends... back when I had friends... they called me Bucky. I don't... feel like that person anymore."

Natasha stuck her hand out. "I'm Natasha," she said.

A ghost of a smile hovered on his face. His grip was strong, much stronger than she would have expected from a drunk, beaten homeless man. "You are Russian?"

"Formerly," she said. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Once in the bathroom, however, James seemed reluctant to sit down and allow Natasha to tend to him. He leaned on one of the towel rods. "Perhaps I could... if I'm not imposing, too much... I could take a shower?"

Natasha recalled her rude comments on the train. "You don't have to," she said quickly. When he winced, she rushed to add, "It isn't a problem. There are extra towels in the closet here, and I might even have some clothes that would fit you."

At that his head snapped up. "Your husband's?"

"No," she said, stepping backwards out of the bathroom. "My friend Clint's. My work friend. He sometimes stays here and watches my cat when I'm away."

"Right." James collapsed onto the edge of the bathtub. "Okay. Thank you so much. For the shower. In advance."

"You could take a bath. I mean, you were barely conscious before. It might be best."

"Right again. Okay." He turned the knob for the hot water.

Natasha closed the door behind her and went to rifle through the stack of washed and folded clothes from Clint's last visit. She found a pair of pajama pants with no tears in them and a gray t-shirt worn to the point of maximum softness. The cat crept out and rubbed up against Natasha's legs, purring. "Sorry about the stranger in the house, Liho," she said. "It's just for one night, I promise." She pulled off her sweater and skirt and put on her own pajamas with one eye on her open bedroom door. In the bathroom she heard the water turn off and telltale splashes.

She returned to the bathroom and knocked softly on the door. When there was no answer, she knocked harder, and then opened the door a crack. "James? I have the clothes..." She caught a glimpse of him beneath a thick foam in the steamed up mirror. She opened the door and stepped inside, leaving the clothes on the sink. "James?"

He was unconscious again, floating in the bathtub. His body was too long to allow him to slide down and drown. His knees poked up above the water. She supposed it was best that the rest was obscured by bubbles.

The injuries in the bright bathroom lights were worse than she had seen earlier. His hair was caked in blood. She held him beneath his neck and cupped water over his hair. The bubbles turned pink and grey and brown. Despite her ministrations he did not wake, and she worked in a lather of shampoo, rinsed, then repeated. With a loofah loaded with shower gel, she scrubbed gently at the scrim of dirt on his neck and shoulders, careful around the puckered stump of his arm. She was working on his other arm when his hand shot out of the water and grabbed her wrist.

His eyes snapped open.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You were sleeping, or unconscious..."

Those blue eyes pierced hers. Perhaps this was what had brought her to carry this stranger home, the fear in his eyes. It must have been there, even back in the subway station. Natasha was usually excellent at reading people - it was part of her job description.

He didn't say anything. She pulled at her wrist and he released it with a confused look on his face. "I brought some clothes for you," she said, pointing at the sink. Then she left the bathroom.

Liho mewed.

"You're hungry, aren't you," she said to the cat. After opening a can for her pet, she opened her fridge and looked at the contents. Surely James was hungry as well, and she hadn't yet had dinner. The interior of the refrigerator, however, offered mostly take-out containers. She opened the freezer to little avail, then searched her cabinets. Ramen noodles it was.

While the microwave hummed, Natasha got a fire going in the fireplace. She wasn't sure why, since she hadn't used the fireplace since last winter, when the power went out for two days. Now that there was someone else in the apartment, she realized how cold and empty it all was.

"No Christmas tree," came his voice behind her, and she whirled to find James and his damp hair framed in the hallway. The pajama pants hung off his hipbones, and the slightly too small t-shirt revealed a flat stomach.

"No," she said.

He rubbed the empty sleeve of the t-shirt self-consciously. "The fire makes it cozy."

"Yeah." She sat back on her heels and looked at the flames. The beep of the microwave made her jump. "I, ah, made dinner. It's just ramen... I don't really eat at home much, sorry."

"Anything would taste good right now," James said. "I hope you don't mind, I took some aspirin and used some mouthwash."

"Not a problem." He looked so different with all the dirt scrubbed off. She felt him watching her as she poured the noodles into two bowls. "I have wine, if you want some," she offered.

"Sure."

He sat down at the counter and together they slurped the noodles into their mouths. Natasha hadn't realized how hungry she was. "I have more, if you're still hungry," she said, noting how quickly he had eaten.

"I'd better not."

"Okay." Once they had deposited their bowls in the dishwasher, Natasha carried her wine glass into the living room and curled up on the couch in front of the fire.

"No television, either?"

Natasha smiled, more like a wince. "I'm not home much. I travel a lot for work."

"What do you do?"

His eyes were so intense, watching her. She was glad to see him feeling better, not as faint. The food had helped, hopefully.

"Would it help to say that information is classified?"

James smiled a little and shrugged. "Lots of government agents in this town."

For a few moments they stared into the fire. Then James said, "You really are beautiful, you know."

"Thank you." Her cheeks felt warm, and she glanced over at him slyly. "You clean up nice."

His gaze met hers.

"I don't do this, you know," she said. "I mean, I don't pick guys up off the street and drag them bodily back to my apartment."

"So I'm special, then?" His eyes twinkled in the firelight.

She laughed and slid off the couch onto the carpet, then crawled over to sit on the hearth. Her apartment was quite chilly and the heat on her back felt nice. "I don't know what I was thinking," she said.

"Christmas spirit and all that?"

She shrugged.

"It's been a long time for me, too," he said. "I used to have friends, and a family... now I've got no one."

Nodding, she said, "I don't have any family either. Or very many friends. Occupational hazard."

He set down his wine glass and slid onto the floor. "Wow, this... is a nice carpet. Soft."

Natasha slid over a bit, as it seemed James wanted to share the hearth with her. Now that he was inches away, and not wrapped up in dirty layers of thick winter clothes, she noticed the way his arm muscles bulged against the sleeve of the t-shirt.

"There's something different about you," she said. "Different from all the other homeless people on the streets, I mean. Something... familiar? Maybe?" As soon as the word came out of her mouth, she realized that was it. He was familiar, somehow. That was what had made her go to these lengths to help him. "Would it be rude to ask you how you became homeless?"

He closed his eyes. This close, she could see how long his eyelashes were against his sharp cheekbones. He winced, then looked at her. "I... don't really remember."

"Not at all?"

"I... had a life once. I was in the army. I had an accident." He shrugged his left shoulder. "I was in the hospital for a long time... took a lot of drugs. I black out. A lot. My brain doesn't always feel right."

Natasha cocked her head. "Do I seem familiar to you? At all?"

He studied her. His gaze moved over her arched eyebrows and her lips and the curve of her jaw like the whisper of a touch. She was so intent on studying his face that she didn't notice his hand reaching up to her hair until she felt the light pull of that weight on it. "Yes." His voice was little more than an exhale. "How do I know you?"

Their faces were inches apart. His hand stroked her hair lovingly, as though he might have once done the same. They breathed the same air.

She couldn't be sure who kissed whom. All she knew was that her lips were suddenly tasting his. His were rough and chapped from living on the street but his tongue tasted like mint and spice. With the fire crackling and hot on her back, she arched into his solid chest and wrapped her arms about his neck. He gripped her waist with his arm and the strength of his knotted forearm send a thrill of heat.

Her fingers rubbed the stubble on his jaw, traced his ear, and then she was sucking on his neck, which was still damp from his hair. He buried his face in her tresses and inhaled. When Natasha tugged at his t-shirt, he leaned back so she could pull it over his head. It came off more easily than she expected, but then, there was one less arm to contend with. The scars were thick and white. She lowered her head and kissed them. He shuddered.

The heat of the fire was becoming too much. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and pulled her on top of him on the rug. This was how she liked it, riding him. She pulled off her own tank top and let him look at her. Those blue eyes had warmed up, and the firelight on his face made him look healthier than he had looked earlier. She felt his fingers teasing at her hip, following the line of the waistband of her pajamas and dipping between the elastic of her underwear and her skin. She suddenly became aware that he wasn't wearing any underwear. The thin plaid of the cotton left little to the imagination. The realization pulsed in her. She knelt and leaned over him to kiss him, allowing him to slide the pajamas down her hip. She reached for the tie on his pants, but had barely undone the bow before he lifted his hips and slid them down for her.

She gasped when he entered her. It had been far too long, a self-imposed celibacy after a period of using her body to manipulate men. He was much larger than any man she could remember fucking in recent hisory. Yet there was something familiar about his size. It filled her completely with a memory of a time when she knew what love meant.

Gently thrusting, he watched her face as she bit her lip. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, and, finally able to respond, she rocked her own hips and closed her eyes, tilting her head back. Idly, her hands ran down over his smooth chest. His skin was warm to her touch.

Her breath quickened. Swiftly, he wrapped his arm around her ass and flipped her over, laying her down on the soft white carpet. The fluidity and strength of the action coupled with the gentleness by which he placed her nearly made her come right then. Now she could wrap her legs around his waist, and he had the leverage to drive his cock deep into her. She could not keep from moaning now. He panted with the effort but did not slow. Harder and faster until she could not stand it any longer. Her back arched and her muscles shuddered.

After, James kissed her collarbone as they nestled on the downy rug, the fire warming their exposed skin. He sat up for just a moment to pull a blanket over them. Warm and exhausted, Natasha allowed her eyes to slip closed and her head to fall onto his chest.

When Natasha awoke, the fire had died down, and she shivered a little. Her bare shoulder was exposed. For a moment she didn't understand why she was on the floor, and then she remembered and reached out her arm. She felt only the carpet beside her. Had it all been a dream? The room felt dark and cold, and she felt around for her pajamas and pulled them on before standing and waddling to her bedroom with the afghan wrapped around her.

Instead of calling out for James, she crawled into bed and pulled the thick covers over her. Whatever spell had come over her last night had dried up. She had invited a homeless man into her apartment against her better judgment, and he had taken what he needed and gone. Better to have it this way than to have him living here, leeching off of her, for who knew how long. Natasha only hoped that he had only taken the cash from her purse and not her credit cards.

From her bedroom window, she could see the enormous Christmas tree in front of the Capitol building lit up. There was no such thing as a Christmas miracle. Hours ago, it had felt like something real, but now it was Christmas morning, and she was alone again. It was only another day.

In the morning when she woke, her pillowcase was damp. She stared at the sunlight shining off the icicles and tried to close her eyes. They snapped back open. She had always been an early riser. Years of habit. She threw the covers back and started to sit up.

She looked down, and wondered at the arm draped over her waist.

"Merry Christmas," James mumbled from the pillow beside hers.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I thought you had gone," she said.

"I wanted to get you something. To thank you for everything you gave me last night." He rubbed his eyes and sat up. "Come on."

He took her hand and pulled her into the living room. There, next to the fireplace, was a little Christmas tree that lit up the cold space.

"I kinda had to steal it," he admitted.

She smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "It's perfect," she said.


End file.
